A Healing Process
by ThoseCunningFolk
Summary: Harry helps Draco move out of his childhood home. Draco's POV. Oneshot. Drarry. Plenty of fluff for all! Rated for a few instances of language.


"Your house looks better than I remember."

I gave the brunette beside me a sideways glance.

"You don't have to lie," I said. "I would be uncomfortable too. We're not going downstairs, though. Just my room."

Harry nodded. He kept two steps behind me through the entire manor, shoulders stiff and his hand in his pocket—on the hilt of his wand, most likely. The tense stance did not ease until we made it to my bedroom, when bewilderedness took its place. I'm sure he had to feel like he was in the Slytherin dorms. My room was large, high-ceilinged, neat, and heavily accented in greens, blacks, and silvers.

"Wow," he said. "Nice room."

I grimaced. "Thanks. I won't miss it."

I stole another glance at the teen beside me. Just three months ago, I couldn't have imagined him ever stepping into my house, much less helping me pack. I couldn't say exactly what changed between us. In an emotionally exhausting time frame, we had gone from a blood-boiling tension, to an accepting nod-in-the-hallway, to regularly sitting by the lakeside. I guess there didn't have to be a single event that brought us together: we just grew up.

"Where do we start?" Harry asked. "I don't see anything packable."

"I'll put everything in the drawers into boxes," I said. "You could shrink the bed and furniture and put them in a suitcase."

"Right…. Where are the boxes?"

I chuckled and flicked my wand, transforming a dozen or so buttons into cardboard boxes. We set to work.

There was a satisfying feeling each time I threw something into a box. Never again did I want to see this house or the memories that came with it. And now that the family vaults and assets, including the manor, were taken by the Ministry, I wouldn't have to. I was going to live in Harry's flat until I could get back on my feet. Sure, the Ministry paid us for rebuilding the school, but it was a measly and temporary pay.

Under my bed, I found a photo album. I held on to it for a moment and mindlessly flipped the cover open. Just the sight of the first picture—one taken with Aunt Bella when I was first born—was enough to set my teeth on edge. I slammed the cover shut and threw it violently into the box, earning a startled swear from Harry. His shriek made me jerk in surprise, but I laughed it off quickly.

"Jumpy, are we?" I antagonized lightly. Before he could create a dignified answer, I sat on the edge of by bed and announced, "Break."

Harry stood. He paused awkwardly, as though contemplating sitting next to me, but instead pulled himself to sit on the top of my ebony dresser. I rolled my eyes. Typical Gryffindor.

"So…. Any other rooms to clear out after this one?"

"No. I don't want anything else…. You know, I won't bite your ear off if you sit over here."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm okay here."

"I'm not worried about you," I said. "I'm worried about the ten thousand galleon dresser you're sitting on."

His eyes flew open and his lips parted, but he recovered and pulled on a very cocky, Slytherin mask that didn't quite suit his face.

"Is that all?" he asked, chin stuck up.

I snorted and patted the silk duvet next to me. He leaned back leisurely on the dresser, smearing his fingerprints into the well-polished wood.

"If you think about it," he said, "me just sitting on it is increasing its value by the second. So, you're welcome."

"Get off the dresser, Potter."

"You know what else would increase its value? If I licked the mirror. Then you can claim you have my DNA."

"Three seconds….Three."

"It only takes one second. It will be too late by the time—"

"Two." I had to fight a smile.

"Ooh, what's the big bad Slytherin going to do?" He stuck his tongue out threateningly.

"One."

He managed to swipe his tongue across the glass as I lunged for him, not stopping even when I heard the shatter of my mirror. Harry screamed, not expecting me to throw him over my shoulder long enough to stagger to the bed and throw him on it. He kicked and thrashed, but I dragged him nearer to the headboard and then held him down with my own body.

"Hmm, where did that mouth of yours get you this time?" I asked smugly. "What _should_ the big bad Slytherin do to its victim? Beat him senseless? Smother him with a pillow? I know!"

I slid my hands up and down his sides, allowing my fingers to dance across the fabric of his shirt as he shouted and struggled. I laughed, enjoying that something as simple as tickling his nerves could create such an agonizing effect on the Gryffindor.

"S-stop—stop it! Draco! DRACO! Stop! Stop, stop, I can't—Ah! No! Get off, get—ah!"

I laughed louder when his pleads started to become breathless slurs, but didn't stop until the shouts stopped all together. Mercifully, I allowed him to breathe again while I laughed in his face…. Which I suddenly noticed was alarmingly close to my own. With a sharp intake of breath, I climbed off him, feeling my heart pound painfully against my ribs. What had gotten into me?

"Are you…. Okay?" Harry panted.

"Yeah," I answered quickly. "Yeah, fine. I…. You're bleeding."

I had just noticed a small trail of blood that had come from behind his hairline. It must have been his head that had broken my mirror. Without explanation, I slid off the bed and strode into the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked.

"Just stay there," I called, and muttered to myself, "Stupid, stupid. Can't believe I did that. Damn."

I found a wash rag and a mild healing potion, which I carried back with me into the room. Harry had sat up on the bed, still clutching his waist and trying to breathe. I noticed that the shirt had slid up some, exposing the skin of his hips and lower back, and instantly regretted having noticed. I tried not to meet his eyes when I sat in front of him, on my knees so I could get a good look at the top of his head.

"This will sting a little," I said, dabbing the rag into the vial. "The cut's not deep, though, so it's really only the sanitizer that will hurt."

"Why don't you just kiss it better then, if you're so concerned about it stinging?"

My heart caught in my throat.

"I mean, uh," Harry stuttered, "I guess you wouldn't get the joke, would you? Pureblood. Right. Uh. It's a muggle expression."

"Oh."

The preceding silence was deafening. I did not dare talk in fear that even the most casual of statements would expose my true thoughts: what would happen if I tried to kiss him better?

 _What's wrong with me?_ I thought, distraught. _Why am I thinking this? This is the last thing he needs. The last thing I need. Damn._

"Draco?"

"Mm?"

"Why did you save me? When those Death Eaters caught me. You didn't tell them it was me, but you knew it was."

My hand paused in his hair. Why _didn't_ I turn him in? I didn't have feeling for him then, did I? But I don't now, either…. Maybe.

"Er…. Did I offend you?" he asked.

"Wha—no," I said, proceeding to wipe the blood from his hair. I tried not to notice my hands tremble. "Why did you save me in the Room of Requirements? You didn't have to come back. The Weas—er, you friend—didn't want to."

He shifted. It wasn't until he looked up at me that I noticed his head had been held down further than necessary.

"I don't know. Same reason. Maybe."

But I hadn't given him a reason! Bloody hell.

"Maybe."

Neither of us spoke, but I most certainly was not going to suffer another period of silence. Before I could let myself think it through, I pressed my lips firmly against the top of his head, where the cut had been. The force of the kiss relaxed some when I felt the silky hair against my cheek. It was soft and pliable, very unlike my own gel-slicked hair. His felt real.

I pulled away. When I wasn't met with objection, my lips sank lower—first to his hair line, then the scar on his forehead, then his eyebrows, his eyelid, his cheek, and the corner of his mouth, where I paused.

"Are you healed yet?" I asked, barely a whisper.

"Healing," he said. "Not healed yet."

His fingers threaded through the back of my hair, and he sealed our lips together. In an explosion of nerves, I allowed myself to stop thinking all together while my hands explored his back and my lips explored his face and neck. Maybe I would get a good memory out of this house after all.

I would never admit it to anyone, but snogging this particular boy was a life changing moment, because I walked away with more than swollen lips and a few bite marks. When I put everything into perspective, I finally understood every hateful blow and every nasty word we had exchanged over the years. It was a healing process. And every wound has to sting before it can get better.

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